Atlas sits on the loading dock
filled with tatters, stocky, broken,
open topped, the trash within
all that’s known of business past.
Atlas greets the daily traffic
seething past the matinées
saying happiness can be dreamed
after stage and scene are trashed . . .

Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 3. Purchase the book to read the full piece.

Mo cannot take Fridays off. As a result he finds himself praying in the eastbound streetcar on his way to work. He assumes the appropriate position—as if holding the Qu’ran in hand—and enters a meditative state of worship, mumbling to himself at points where he usually sings when in the privacy of his own room . . .

I can’t help but feel guilty when I see Tito Sisi’s fond smile. I don’t know what’s happened to Tito Sisi’s wife, children or other grandchildren—no one bothers to ask—but Tito Sisi’s living arrangements stand in stark contrast to Papa Lamig’s in Toronto . . .